


to court death

by truehumandisaster



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Apocalypse, Gen, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, hints of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truehumandisaster/pseuds/truehumandisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>death is here for all, and the four horsemen mark her arrival</p>
            </blockquote>





	to court death

**PREFACE**

Our creator was said to have been unveiled in the first nanoseconds of the Universe, when not even light could pierce the gnawing darkness of space. In that infinite stretch of loneliness, she uncurled and gave it the spark of a promise -- a promise that she would retain balance, even as matter began to clump together in a perfectly unbalanced way. Her breath formed galaxies, but it was from her tears we were created; from then on, she was ever eager to have us back. 

It was said she roamed many planets for many lifetimes, but it was on Earth she sank to the bottom of the sea, stretching her hands to the sky with the whispered notion that she would return. Wherever she went, however, life followed, greedy for her breath and eager to court her once more. 

For years she slumbered, but what was a few millennia when the very fabric of the cosmos was weaved into her cloak? Her coming will call upon **four riders** , each one a pawn to a much larger game. 

_Death_ , after all, is only the beginning. 

 

**I. PESTILENCE**

> _And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, "Come and see.” And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer._

Real war didn’t take place within the nuclear detonation of a bomb or the barrel of a gun in the hands of a new soldier. _Real war_ took place in the pause between breaths, where secrets blossomed with such tender innocence that Natasha Romanoff almost felt _badly_ for tearing them up at their roots. Of course, such care only presented itself within the confines of deep slumber, and deep slumber was a luxury she could not afford on a mission.

The man was drunk, that much was obvious, but his fear slurred his words far more than any drink had managed to. She wondered which would win out: the lust that had him licking his lips with eager anticipation or the wariness that had him continuously eyeing the exit, as if uncertain when Hell would descend upon him. If he was _clever_ , he would have heeded the warning sounding in his blood, but he was as low level a HYDRA agent as they came. 

He chose **lust**.

 _You’ve chosen...poorly_ , she thought as her lips curved upward in a daring smile. 

The club’s music continued to pound loudly, and she curled her finger through the loop in his belt to pull him closer. The Black Widow was casting its web, and few managed to escape once it was cast. Her skills were numerous and all devoted toward this single goal: help Steve, help James, help them. She owed both too much to do otherwise, making Fury only partially right when he had claimed she was comfortable with everything. So long as it benefited them, she’d gather the tinder for a great flame if she had to. 

“This place is getting a little _crowded_ , wouldn’t you say?” She asked the man, and the hollowness of her chest echoed with her words. 

“Yeah, yeah, it is.” Once more, he peered over his shoulder, and she felt his hand slide down her lower back, greedy for a prize he knew he would lose if he didn’t claim now. “I’m supposed to be meetin’ with someone here in a bit -- no, _no_ , that don’t mean you’ve got to leave, doll. I’ve got keys to the back… How’s that sound to you, eh? I can fuck you right in the club.”

The minute she _enjoyed_ killing was the minute she knew she would lose herself to her alias _**(**_ the Red Death, the Black Widow, the devil; the list was never ending _**)**_ \-- but some men made it so _difficult_ not to look forward to that final moment. She thought of this as she kissed him, giggling against his lips.

 _This_ was war: sickly sweet. 

He was fumbling with his pants before he had even closed the door to the back room, and she was knocking him unconscious just as quickly. **_(_** Not killing, she had to remind herself. **_)_** There was a five minute stretch before the meeting was _supposed_ to take place, and she kicked off her heels in preparation. The man now unconscious on the ground may have been low level HYDRA, but the meeting he was involved in most assuredly was _not_. 

She had counted to thirty in almost every language she knew by the time the door finally creaked open, and before the HYDRA agent had time to even ask what was taking his friend so long, she was twisting her legs around his neck to silence any call he may have wanted to utter. All the while, her heart thrummed within her chest, as steady as the bass in the techno music just on the other side of the wall. 

“Fuck -- ! It’s her!” 

He wasn’t alone, and Natasha’s smile turned cruel as she rushed the newcomer. None of them were the one she had been sent for, but neither had they seen her coming. Once upon a time, one of her marks had told her she was as lovely as a flower, but Natasha was no fool -- she was a weed. 

And what did weeds do?  
They crept; they stole; they killed.

By the time the fighting seized, only one out of the five HYDRA agents that had showed up for the meeting was left conscious. She straddled him, one knee pressed soundly against his throat. 

“You’re early,” she chastised, glancing at her phone. She quickly searched the man’s pockets, pulling out a dagger and wallet. _Clyde Barons_ , age 20, Arizona license. “But I suppose you’ll have to do. Have you ever seen someone with a crushed larynx, Mr. Barons? It’s a far from pleasant experience. Tell me when your boss is supposed to arrive, and you can avoid dealing with it firsthand.” 

“Right at 10:00, but it’s a good thing I came by early.” The new voice caused her back to stiffen, and she heard the cock of a gun almost an instant too late. Instincts were a brilliant thing: they forced one’s body into motion before the impulses in the brain could scream to do so, and they effectively saved her life. The bullet intended for her buried itself in Clyde Barons, and the sounds of him drowning in his own blood echoed strangely with the beats of the club. “Come now, if you wanted to meet me that badly, surely you had a better plan than this? I’m insulted.” 

She pulled out her own gun as she rolled to her feet, pointing it at one of HYDRA’s countless second-in-commands. _Disposable_ , each and every one of them. The woman was far taller than Natasha had imagined, with a joyful mirth in her eyes that contrasted the dullness within Natasha’s own. If there was one thing that could be said about her, it was that she enjoyed her line of work.

“I’ve heard some interesting things, Widow,” the woman continued. She believed herself to be the cat and Natasha the mouse; Natasha would not enlighten her otherwise. “Captain America has become rather _aggressive_ with his search for information -- sloppy, some would say. I’m afraid you’re not fairing much better. You want knowledge on the subject known as the Winter Soldier as well, I assume? We destroyed all information and moved on to bigger things. I know nothing; these men know even less. Do try another day, maybe you’ll get lucky.” 

“I don’t care about the Winter Soldier.” Lying had never come easier for her. “I’m here for you, Dr. Laurens.” 

Three things happened simultaneously: 

Clyde Barons twitched on the ground, a violent jerk as his soul tried to remain within his body.  
The woman’s gaze shifted from Natasha to an unconscious form behind her, eyes widening in horror.  
Natasha fired off two shots, one hitting Dr. Laurens in the hand and the other in the chest. 

When Natasha turned around, she caught sight of what had caused such an expression on the scientist’s face. The man who had brought her to the back room **_(_** the man she had _kissed **)**_ had sores forming across his features. The red appeared to crack his skin, although she knew such a thing was unlikely. His eyes flew open, and his mouth dropped in a silent scream that soon turned loud as he scratched at the sores. Skin flaked away where his nails connected, but he continued to scratch, without a care that she stood watching.  


Each of the unconscious men began to twitch awake as their own sores called to them through their stupor. 

_You are a disease, Natalia.  
I promise to kill faster than any disease, madam. _

For the first time, instead of her careful extraction, she fled from the scene. The burner phone was out of her pocket before she had even fully left the alleyway. There were only two numbers held inside, and she dialed one of them now.

“Rogers, something’s wrong.”

 

**II. WAR**

> _And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, "Come and see.” And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword._

They told him it wasn’t his fault.

No one had known about the identity of the Winter Soldier, so what could Steve Rogers have done?

Some days, he was close to believing them. Flashes of the war would travel back to him during these times, and one certainty remained true above all else: _chaos_ was vibrant and bold, despite the blurriness of the memories. The sound of gunfire rang; the smell of blood was sharp in the air, and it was easy to understand how he could let it happen in all the chaos -- but then he would recall a _loud yell_ as Bucky looked at him _**(**_ his eyes were so wide, but to this day, Steve was unsure if it was from fear or acceptance of his fate _**)**_ and fell away… _away_ …a w a y…

The belief never lasted long. 

“I should have looked for him _harder_ ,” he yearned to reply, sad smile tugging at the edges of his lips, but he had learned to keep the words to himself. He knew what Bucky would say, and sometimes, when the lights were low, and the sounds of the cars honking outside reminded him of Brooklyn, he could almost hear the man’s voice. 

“Come on, _Steve_ \-- ” He tried not to panic as he realized he could not _quite_ recall the drawl of Bucky’s voice. _**(**_ Always, his memories were interrupted by the pained denials of the man as they fought on the highway. _**)**_ “ -- _It’s not your fault_.” 

His hands tightened into fists almost of their own accord, and beside him, Sam Wilson gave one of his looks. This was another dead end, another _false lead_ , and he could sense the words Sam was about to form: it’s not your fault, Steve. 

No, he wouldn’t fail _him_ again.

There was a flash of anger, and he punched the wall of the run down facility, knuckles cracking under the pressure. _You have the hands of an artist, Stevie, not the hands of a soldier_. The sting of pain helped focus him, and already, he was out the door, moving on. There were countless targets, and crossing another one off the list led him closer to…to… His brows furrowed in concentration, and he realized Sam was asking him _something_ , but he could not hear him – not really. When was the last time he slept? When was the last time he checked in with Natasha, as he promised he would do?

In a moment of delirium, he imagined this was how Neptune felt: too far away from the Sun to feel its warmth, but always, _always_ being teased by a glimpse of it in the day.  


“Next place,” he repeated for the umpteenth time. “We’ll find him there.” 

The next place he would travel to alone, and when he found the fight he was looking for, he met it with a wild gleam in his eyes.

“That all you got?” 

Anger lit a fire in his chest, and his hands _**(**_ already bruised over from the last fight _**)**_ clutched tightly into fists at his side. Only two things on this damn earth made him angry: bullies and people who stood aside to let it continue. He spit on the ground, ignoring how bright red of a color it was, and he gave his most ferocious scowl to the man. In answer, he lunged forward, connecting his punch to Steve’s ribs. Once more, his words echoed in the alleyway: _that all you got?_

Anger had become as familiar and comforting to him as a lullaby, but it was not a pointless anger -- it was directed to something greater than himself. It was something he was accustomed to in his goal to make the world a better place than when he entered it.

 **Rage** , however?  
Rage was new. 

He stopped fighting when he heard the man wheezing, and he opened the computer to do yet another search for anything pertaining to what the fuck they had done to Bucky. A few typed lines of code **_(_** Natasha had taught him one day, and he was eager and quick to learn _**)**_ , and he was expecting the same thing he always got -- _nothing_. 

Instead, a faint _ding_ signified the exact opposite had occurred. 

Jumping from a plane without a parachute did not elicit the same skip in his heart as that sound had, and with a shaky breath, he brought up the files that had been marked as important. Of the hundreds of files on the computer, two had passed his initial inspection. He had the resources of the most powerful organization in the western world at his tips, and Natasha’s advice had done far more for him than they could have ever dreamt of. 

The first file contained a picture of Zola, hunched over with an illness that hadn’t claimed him soon enough, and three other scientists stood beside him, equally as small and sad. He recognized two of them; each dead mere days before he had tracked them down. Behind them was a half-hidden machine that caused the jump in his heart to stall. The picture was too grainy to tell what the machinery was for, but he knew. He knew it the minute he saw that goddamn Swiss’s face. It was where they kept _him_ , cold and alone but _never_ forgotten. 

Most lines of information in the file were redacted; those that weren’t were in Russian code, leaving Steve only able to pick out a phrase here or there. _The asset_ \-- two words he had come to know in too many languages. 

The second file had no pictures **_(_** to which he was immensely thankful for **_)_** , but instead, it carried only the word **PATMOS** , written again and again and in different tongues every time. It had nothing to do with the parameters of his search, nothing to do with any factor of the Winter Soldier, and yet it sent a shiver through him all the same. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he picked up only when he saw Natasha’s number as the contact. 

“Rogers, something’s wrong.”  
“Nat? Where are you?”  
“We need to meet -- an hour, that little cafe off Broadway. I know you love their pancakes.”  
“They put chocolate chips on ‘em. Can you blame me?”  
“ _An hour_ , Steve. Bring Sam.”

 

**III. FAMINE**

> _And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, "Come and see". And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand. And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts say, "A measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny; and see thou hurt not the oil and the wine.”_

Sam Wilson was in a meeting when he got the call -- the only thing that would manage to pull him away from the veterans. They nodded their heads, pure understanding on their faces, and he couldn’t help but feel he needed them in that moment more than they needed him; he needed them to _ask him_ to stay, to pull him away from the world he had been swept up into and remind him where his roots were planted. No one stopped him, and even if they had, he knew he would have gone anyways.

Steve needed him, and he was joined to that man by the frayed edges of the red string of fate. It didn’t matter if his knees bent and his back ached with the weight of the soldier’s heart, he would carry it past the ends of the world if it was asked of him. _**(**_ Even if it _wasn’t_ , it was a weight he was always proud to carry. _**)**_

He was halfway to the cafe when the police cars flew by him.  
He was two-thirds the way there when the ambulance followed.

“ _Shit_. They can’t even go _one_ afternoon -- ” 

He started running after that, hoping beyond hope the place Steve had sent him the address of wasn’t the very one needing such assistance. Two blocks away, and a pair of hands grabbed him and yanked him within the nearest alley. 

“Sam, it’s us,” Steve’s voice reached him through the blurred moment where instinct and defense met, and he straightened up from the man’s grip, turning to see Natasha casually leaned against the building beside him. All the chaos of the city wouldn’t break that calm demeanor, and he knew it. 

“What the _hell_ , man? You couldn’t just tell me to meet you in the scary as hell alley outside the cafe? Had to scare me to death instead?” Steve didn’t look good; those damn blue eyes seemed dim, and Sam’s worry immediately shifted. The man reminded him too much of Riley for his own good; Cap would give his life in half a second if it meant **good** could come of it, and perhaps Sam was selfish for not wanting that to occur. An even quieter voice whispered that _perhaps_ that was the reason he had come at all. Whether or not Bucky could be saved wasn’t his concern, but the hero willing to throw away that title for him had become the biggest damn concern in his life. “You goin’ tell me what happened, or should I guess?” 

“You won’t guess this one,” Natasha retorted. If he wasn’t at least halfway convinced she was an android, he thought he sensed the barest twinge of _fear_ lacing her voice. 

Steve held out a scrap of paper to him, and he looked from Natasha to the scrap, unsure if he even wanted to see the damn thing -- but if anyone took a shot at Steve, they took a shot at him. The paper only had one word on it: **PATMOS**. Unsure, he flipped it over, but there was nothing further scrawled onto the parchment. 

“This some sort of disease?” 

“ _John of Patmos_ \-- he wrote the Book of Revelations.” He looked toward Natasha, and she nodded slightly. “I found it all across one of HYDRA’s files and -- ” A helicopter flew by overhead, and the sounds of sirens returned with a vengeance, blaring louder than ever. 

“Steve, we need to go.” The worry had returned to Natasha’s expression, and her worry was enough to send them from the alley. 

They continued to move until she pulled them into a small bar, dimly lit in the afternoon skies. In the spacious room, only two stools were occupied. One man was snoring loudly, hand curled protectively around his drink, and the other was hardly bothered by their arrival. The bartender blinked in surprise at their appearances, and her mouth fell open. _Yeah, you know them_. That was the difference between Natasha and the soldiers: she was a spy, and she was good at hiding in plain sight. It just made him feel vulnerable. 

It would turn out to be justified this time around. Before he even had the chance to ask anymore questions, two police officers caught a glimpse of them through the window and darted through the door, guns extended and most definitely pointed at the trio. Sam cursed under his breath. He hadn’t meant for someone to _literally_ take a shot at Steve and himself. 

Sam held up his hands, knowing exactly who they’d shoot first. “Anyone want to tell me what the hell happened at the cafe?” 

The eyes of the cops widened at his voice. 

“I’m thirsty,” the first whispered, and sure enough, his voice was hoarse. “God, I’m so fucking thirsty.” 

The gun clattered to the ground, and the officer darted past them all, utterly forgetful to his mission. He shoved the bartender roughly out of the way and grabbed hold of the nozzle that signified beer. Before anyone could say a word, he was shooting it directly into his mouth. He drank far deeper than Sam thought possible, and he just _kept going_. 

“What the _fuck_ , Bern?” The second officer stared between his partner and Sam, waving his gun threateningly. Sam tried not to notice the slight shake in his hand. “Make him stop.”

“Sam’s armed too,” he heard Natasha hiss to Steve. 

The sigh Steve elicited carried far too much weight. _Pass some to me_ , he wanted to beg, but he was too confused to do much else than look at Steve as he chucked his shield at the officer, knocking him into the wall. Natasha moved at the same moment, as if they had coordinated the entire thing, and she lept behind the bar, pulling the officer _**(**_ his chokes sounded inhuman _**)**_ away from the nozzle. Far too efficiently, she used his handcuffs to secure him several feet away.

“John of Patmos wrote about the _end of days_. I walk into the cafe, pay the waitress, and she takes her next dish and breaks it over a man’s head. Nat tried to help, and the next thing we know, they’re breakin’ out in sores and… It wasn’t pretty, Sam.” Something angry quaked Steve’s voice, and Sam almost reached forward to set his hand on the man’s shoulder, same as he had done to Riley a thousand times. Natasha’s words echoed through his head and stopped him: _he’s armed too_. “I think HYDRA did something to us -- to all three of us. We need to get away from people.” 

Cut off one head and two more shall take its place. He really wished that had just been a motto, but the officer Natasha had secured was still straining against his cuffs and moaning about his thirst and Sam knew that motto had been the one thing the organization had been truthful about. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” 

Well, he hadn’t gotten back into the business for nothing.

  


**IV. DEATH**

> _And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, "Come and see.” And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him._

The Winter Soldier touched the mirror, closing his eyes against the reflection the minute his fingertips brushed against the cool surface.

“I don’t do that anymore,” he repeated to himself, forcing a name he hadn’t dared to speak to leave his lungs. “You are James Buchanan Barnes -- _sergeant_ apparently. Come on. _Come on_.” A metallic fist shattered the glass, and a thousand microscopic bits and pieces rained on the bathroom floor around him before he even had the chance to look in the goddamn mirror. 

Ghosts haunted him whenever he looked at himself, and most nights, he couldn’t tell the difference between those apparitions and his own reality. They whispered of sacrifice; they demanded **blood**. Above all else, they were never satisfied, and he would sit on the edge of his motel room bed and let them take him if it weren’t for the man on the bridge.

 _Steve_. 

Even the name was a **sin** , and every time he breathed it in, it was further condemnation for the Winter Soldier. Flashes of blond hair and a dumb, stubborn smile filtered through his rotten memory like sunlight through curtains, but he shied away from it. James Buchanan Barnes had died a long time ago, sergeant or otherwise. He was some foul hybrid, twisted beyond recognition. What had they expected when they tore the edges of him apart so many times? Putting something back together was fucking impossible when so many pieces were missing. 

**_(_** _I am become death_ , the scientist had whispered the words in awe the first time his eyes fell upon the asset. _Destroyer of worlds. **)**_

He looked at the fallen pieces of glass and knelt down to clean them up, trying again. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Born 1917. You had a… You _have_ a sister -- Rebecca. Born… Born _when_? God _dammit_.” He dropped the glass he had managed to gather and left it on the ground as he stood once more. He was frayed, but there was one man waiting, ready with a needle and thread to help. It had been six months of this, six months of slowly navigating through memories and fighting with those ghosts. 

It was time.

 _Steve_. 

“Do you think that's a good idea, James?” 

He spun on his heels, gun out before the motion had seized. No one had crept up on him, _surprised him_ , in more than seventy years, and yet, a woman stood in the doorway, a low hood covering her features. There was nothing stopping him from pulling the trigger but his own free will, and such a position was thoroughly unique -- thoroughly mystifying for a man so long deprived of it. He let her live in that moment just because he had the choice. 

“They spoke of you,” she continued, and her wide eyes remained unblinking. **_(_** Blink once, and you miss the birth and death of a galaxy. _**)**_ “The men who awakened me. They were fools, frightened and sniveling as most mortals are. You, however… I chose you wisely for the part you must play. Sniveling has never been a word used on you, has it?”

Unsure if he should answer, Bucky remained silent and his gun remained steady. 

“I followed your scent, if you're wondering. You smell of a freshly dug grave, and there is a cemetery in your smile. It's intoxicating.” No matter the words she said, her expression remained neutral. She was the only person the Winter Solider was not certain he could remove as a threat, and such knowledge itched beneath his skin. 

“What do you want, lady?” 

She clicked her tongue impatiently, and he felt like he had back in grade school -- back before hunger settled in his belly and men curled their greedy hands around his brain. 

“There is only one thing deadlier than an idea: the personification of one.”

It was then he realized that the entire time she spoke, her mouth remained unmoving. His finger tightened on the trigger. 

“Yeah? A gun’s pretty deadly.” 

_A memory tickled him -- the picture of a gun, the picture of a soldier… It was in an old newspaper clipping, and the blond man **(** Stevie, his memory continued to chant **)** crumpled it in his hand before he knew Bucky had caught him staring at it, wistful and stubborn all at once. He held his tattered shoe in one hand and slipped the newspaper inside, and strands of hair fell over his eyes that were just begging to be pushed back. _

The woman stood only a foot away when Bucky came back to his senses, and he flinched **_(_** what a _human_ response! **_)_** as she tugged the gun from his grip. The Winter Soldier felt a mechanical urge to snap her neck; Bucky Barnes felt a distant fear. They had tried to teach him not to fight something as inevitable as _control_ , but the memories in the room only tightened around him when he entertained the thought. He knew that's what she longed for, but if she wanted it from him, she would have to be more than a quiet, hungry spirit. 

“It is **pure** ,” she continued. “ -- Pure in a way the world has not seen since its formation. Ideas tie your people together, but if you add a _face_ to that idea… Suddenly, people would suffer the torments of a generation in order to protect it. Your darling Captain America is well aware of this fact. It's why the world forgets he is a man beneath the stars, and it's why you are so, so _frightened_ of meeting him again. You let down a world when you disappoint him. I am well aware of this fact as well, James.”

Silence continued to meet her, as uncomfortable as the silence between two estranged friends. 

“It was an idea that rose me, but ideas tend to take on a life of their own. You may call me Patmos, and you shall be my shepherd.”

_You shaped the century.  
And I need you to do it one more time. _

Nothing would ever change, would it?

“I don't do that anymore,” he returned the practiced words almost immediately. “Get out of here.”

Her expression did not shift, but she tilted her head to the side in a perturbed manner. “Blood demands blood, and you are drowning in it, James. If your smile is a cemetery, your scowl is a genocide. I shall leave, but you shall find me. You've been marked, and those who carry such a mark are not wise to ignore it.” She turned away, and the lights seemed to flicker in response to her movement. “The end days can be your new beginning.” 

She was silent as she left, but the universe quaked with her promise. Bucky returned to his seat, dropping his head into his hands. _You’ve got the hands of a fighter, Buck. You sure you didn't come out of the womb swinging?_ His arm whirred louder than ever in the consuming silence. 

 

In the distant city, War, Famine, and Pestilence shared a drink, unaware of the woman in the dark hood who had turned her gaze toward them.

**Author's Note:**

> i saw this post and had to make it a reality: http://goddessofidiocy.tumblr.com/post/131677893820/catws-four-four-horsemen-of-the-apocalypse  
> i might continue this but??????? anyways here you babbits go


End file.
